


Surprises, Sickness and Sensation Play

by TimeToRemember



Series: Own Me, Hold Me, Love Me 'verse [6]
Category: The Infernal Devices Series - Cassandra Clare
Genre: Alternate Universe - Human, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Slavery, Bondage, Collars, Dom/sub, Drug Addiction, Drug Withdrawal, Drugs, Dubious Consent, Feathers & Featherplay, Kneeling, M/M, Ownership, Sensation Play, Subspace, sick day
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-17
Updated: 2021-03-17
Packaged: 2021-03-26 15:15:10
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,979
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/30107937
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TimeToRemember/pseuds/TimeToRemember
Summary: In which Jem has a sick day and Will doesn't panic at all.(One of those things isn't true.)Also in which Will gets tied up (again) and learns not to underestimate the humble feather.
Relationships: Jem Carstairs & Will Herondale, Jem Carstairs/Will Herondale
Series: Own Me, Hold Me, Love Me 'verse [6]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/112109
Comments: 4
Kudos: 7





	1. Chapter 1

A few days later, Will realises that it’s happened. They have a _routine_. And he doesn’t hate it. Doesn’t even resent it. Their relationship isn’t a typical one, and their origin story isn’t exactly aspirational, but it works. _They_ work, in a way that Will had never previously experienced and certainly hadn’t known to anticipate. It’s a bit of a mind fuck, if he’s honest, and Frank is _way_ too gleeful about it.

Naturally, that’s when their life together—always objectively fragile—hits a speed bump.

The first sign that something is wrong is that, when Will trips hurriedly down the stairs, the door to the bright and sunny breakfast room is firmly closed.

Immediate alarm bells.

Whether Will tumbles into his place at the table early or late, immaculately turned out or carelessly disheveled, the door is _always_ open, and James is _always_ waiting, perfectly positioned to look up and smile knowingly as Will rushes slipshod through the doorway and tumbles into his seat. The fact that it is closed can be nothing _but_ a bad sign.

Stupefied, Will stands and stares a little longer, until it eventually occurs to him that he won’t gain any answers from the door. So he shoves it open, tension drawing his shoulders high. 

There’s nothing.

Nothing at _all_.

The lights are switched off, and the room is empty and cold. The monolithic mahogany table, usually expertly dressed, holds neither food nor empty plates, and the jugs of tea and coffee ordinarily laid out by the kitchen staff are pointedly absent. The high-backed chairs are all tucked in neatly, the blinds are down, and even the door to the adjoining kitchen is firmly closed. There’s not a wisp of fluff or a wayward crumb to be spotted on the floor.

Considering anyone else’s habits, the empty room would simply be indicative of a last minute change of plans. But James loves his routines, and seems to derive a perverse kind of pleasure from instilling the same in Will. (He’d mentioned, in that terribly earnest way he had, that he was determined to give Will the certainty of knowing exactly where to find him at specific times of the day.) 

As such, Will can only conclude that something is wrong.

But how wrong?

Squaring his shoulders, Will starts forward purposefully, crossing the room on swift, certain feet. When he reaches the adjoining door, he shoves it open hard, heedless of the force with which it flies back and rebounds hard off the wall.

If he’s damaged it, James can reprimand him for it later. Provided that he’s not— _no_. He’s _fine_. Just...sleeping in, or something.

Even _he’s_ not convinced.

At this time of day, the kitchen is usually overflowing, packed with bustling bodies occupied with the multitude of tasks involved in delivering the morning meal to the entire household. And at any other time, there’s always someone in situ to fulfil ad hoc requests as well as a random assortment of other staff members sharing time and news with one another. Never—not once—has Will found it empty.

Until now. 

James’ state of the art kitchen is spotless—and _abandoned_. Every countertop has been freshly and flawlessly scrubbed, gleaming beneath the bright white fluorescent lights set into the ceiling. The stove is empty of cheerfully bubbling pans, and there are no stacks of meat laid out with military precision along the countertop bisecting the room. Even the coffee machine—fearsomely complex and famously mercurial in its affections—stands ominously silent, without so much as a drip of coffee visible in the tray beneath it. Other than what looks like a soup tureen and ladle on the drying rack, there’s not even a towel out of place, and not a soul to be found.

Will’s breath catches in his throat.

Spinning on his heel, Will leaves the kitchen in a blind rush, letting the door slam closed behind him. Back through the breakfast room, he takes the wide stairs two at a time, pulling in huge, open-mouthed breaths that do nothing to ease the vise around his chest, and pounds down the corridor towards James’ room. He’s desperate to find someone—anyone—to explain what has happened. To quieten the fear that threatens to overwhelm him entirely. 

When he’d discovered that Carstairs had purchased his bond, he had fantasised about escaping his chains and breaking his smug, little neck. Now, the idea of anything having happened to him makes his stomach churn.

Will throws open the door to James’ room, forgetting to knock in his haste. But just over the threshold, he stops dead.

Will has been invited into this room more often than he cares to remember, whether to kneel at James’ feet or—even better—to be brought onto the bed with him. He knows every nook and cranny of the large, lavish room and ridiculously large, lavish bed, but today it’s like it belongs to a stranger; he doesn’t recognise one bit of it. 

Not the rucked-up sheets and scattered cushions, soaked through with what can only be sweat. Not the bucket left abandoned nearby, giving off an odour of what Will can unfortunately identify as vomit. Not the tightly closed violin case, pushed up roughly against the wall, or the blinds pulled down tightly over the large, beautiful windows. Even the bright white ceiling light has been turned on, bypassing the warm lamps that James openly favours.

The tiny part of him that had still believed there to be some kind of misunderstanding or a joke he hasn’t yet been made privy to, shrivels up and dies.

“James?” He sounds as uncertain as he feels, but can’t bring himself either to care, or to inject any levity into his tone. “Carstairs? Call out if you’re indecent, I’m coming in.” 

He starts towards the en suite, ready and willing to just barge right in and demand the answers he’s owed, but before he gets halfway, the door opens, and James walks—or, rather, _stumbles_ —through, supported by a woman that Will doesn’t recognise. She’s wearing blue rather than the Carstairs’ grey that Will has become exquisitely familiar with, and a pretty, full-bodied skirt.

Will’s eyes widen a little, and then James’ weary, searching gaze lands on him. His eyes are half-lidded, his skin pale and waxy, and his usual grace painfully absent. When their eyes meet, something like bewilderment flits across his expression, making Will’s stomach twist. It’s replaced by a kind of desperate relief that Will finds equally as disquieting.

The woman supporting James makes a soft noise, pulling a little on his arm. She hasn’t looked away from her charge yet, and thus hasn’t clocked Will’s presence. “Come on, Jem,” she murmurs. “It’s just a little further.” There’s kindness in her eyes and her voice, and Will feels his shoulders relax a little when, even distracted, a small smile quirks the corners of James’ mouth in return. Clearly, James trusts and likes her.

Finally, she notices James’ distraction and looks up, following his gaze. Will holds his ground, chin tilted upwards as she stares in his direction. The bewilderment in _her_ expression is much easier to read—and it lingers. “Jem,” she hisses, shoulders drawn up tight, “who is this? And why is he wearing a _collar_?”

On another day and at another time, Will might have laughed at the rich disbelief in her tone. Under the circumstances, he can’t even muster up a smile.

Without answering, James resumes his slow progress towards the bed. Given how clear it is that he’ll soon topple right over, Will gains an all-new appreciation for his priorities. The woman stays stuck to his side, clearly bursting with questions, but just as clearly unwilling to make James struggle along without aid. 

Finally, she gets him to the bed and under the covers. Its prodigious size swallows him up, leaving him looking oddly small and far too pale. The woman sinks into the chair drawn up next to it and takes one of his limp hands in both of hers. “Jem,” she starts worriedly, “I think you..”

James interrupts before she can finish. “Sorry, Tessa. I was going to tell you, but I wasn’t sure how you’d react. This is Will, my...he’s mine.” 

Will tries not to preen at that.

“Will,” James continues, weak but focused, “I’d like you to meet Tessa. She’s my oldest friend, and practically my sister.”

_Tessa_ softens marginally, dipping her head in a nod. “Hi, Will. Jem, this is _not_ over, but I won’t make you explain yourself this second. When you’re better, we’ll talk.”

James waves her off, not dismissive, but also clearly unwilling to get into it.

Will smiles winningly, amused by her stubborn jut of her jaw. “Tessa. Beautiful name for a beautiful girl.”

Tessa’s cheeks flush red and she makes an outraged noise, standing up swiftly. Behind her, Will can see that James is smiling—and looking all the stronger for it. That’s worth any fallout from his pretty companion.

Tessa draws herself up, squaring her shoulders. “How dare you—”

“Enough, both of you.” The second time around, James’ unexpected interruption is stronger and more authoritative. Tessa’s mouth snaps closed and Will straightens up simultaneously, coming to attention. Still, when he sneaks a look in James’ direction, he can spot a touch of amusement sneaking in at the edges.

“I’m sorry, but first you were going to lambast _me_ for collaring Will, then you were about to give Will a peace of your mind for daring to speak out of turn, proving that he’s hardly cowed. You have to admit that it’s a little funny.”

Tessa’s expression communicates very clearly that she’s about to do nothing of the sort.

“Actually, Tessa,” James continues, before she can give voice to any of the complaints clearly building up behind her thinly-pressed lips, “could you give us a minute?”

Tessa looks affronted by the very idea—an expression that Will is already coming to recognise—but clearly can’t find a way to object. She nods sharply, pats James’ hand again, then takes her leave, closing the door behind her with unnecessary force. 

Will moves even before James looks towards him, falling unsteadily to his knees next to the bed. “James? What’s going on?” Unfortunately, he sounds as freaked out as he feels—but there’s no recrimination in James’ expression. Just a helpless fondness that makes Will’s heart swell to three times its size.

“Will,” he murmurs, “it’s alright, really. I’m not...well, but it’s not dangerous, and I’m not infectious. I’ll be up and about soon enough.”

The words are comforting, but James’ appearance suggests that he’s not being entirely truthful. Will doesn’t want to accuse him of obfuscating, but his explanation also doesn’t account for everyone’s odd behaviour, or the lines of worry etched deeply into Tessa’s expression. He raises his eyebrows meaningfully. “Oh, yeah? As a ghost?”

“Will,” James chides gently, “that’s not going to happen. I promise.”

Will remains unconvinced. “Fine. Fine! It’s your life.” For a second, he hesitates, unsure how far to push or how soon. “But is there anything I can get you to help?”

James looks amused all over again. Will isn’t about to take it personally, but he’s _trying_ to be helpful. Then James’ expression softens. “See that cupboard over there?” 

James can barely lift his arm to point, but there’s only one cupboard in that direction. Will dutifully gets up and strides over to it. 

“There’s a box in the bottom drawer. Bring it to me, please.” 

He sounds reluctant yet resigned, like this is the last thing he wants to do, but has no alternative available.

Will can sympathise.

Kneeling, Will pulls open the bottom drawer. At first, he can’t see anything resembling a box, until he realises that there are clothes piled on top, concealing it from view. Will shifts them aside, eyebrows lifting at its ornate appearance. _Not_ what he had expected. He picks it up without comment, carrying it back over to the bed. 

James takes the box, opening the lid without hesitation. He doesn’t angle it away from Will or ask him to look elsewhere, so Will feels justified in taking a look at the contents as well.

Will blinks. Blinks again. _Not_ what he was expecting.

“Yes, Will.” James’ voice is unbearably gentle. Will drags his gaze away from the contents of the box, meeting his eyes. He’s still trembling a little, but none of that unsteadiness is visible in his gaze. “It’s a drug, and not the kind that’s prescribed by anyone’s GP. It’s...also addictive. I need it to live, but...the more I take, the more I need.”

Will’s mind reels. James isn’t the first user he’s met, and at one point his bond was almost bought by one of the factories that produce the kind of white powder that half-fills the box, so he knows what is out there—and how easy it is for the Lords and Ladies of the realm to acquire. He just hadn’t expected it from James, and isn’t sure he understands how it’s going to help now.

Then it clicks. “You’re in withdrawal.”

James nods. “Correct. I have been trying to take less of it, recently. As you can see, I was a little overzealous.”

“A _little_? You couldn’t even walk, when I came in.”

Will immediately regrets his forthright approach, but James doesn’t look offended. He even smiles, but there’s no joy in the expression, and he looks away quickly.

“You’re right, of course. I had just hoped to keep this from you, for at least a little longer.”

Will has no idea what to say to that, and before he can formulate some kind of response, James takes a dose, his expression set into grim lines. When he’s done, he closes the lid and places the box to one side. There’s a flush in his cheeks, and his eyes look a little dilated. 

Eventually, the silence becomes unbearable. He doesn’t want to push, but he has more questions than he knows how to deal with. Ultimately he shies away from the prospect of asking more about the powder. “And Tessa?”

“Strongly opposed,” James replies, sighing. “But she understands that it’s necessary.”

Will recalls the white-knuckled grip she had on her skirt as she left the room. “She’s worried about you,” he says softly. _As am I_ , he doesn’t add.

“Yes, she is.”

After that, their conversation falters, and it becomes clear that James lacks the strength for further interaction. In the end, he asks Will to read to him. Without hesitating _or_ passing judgement on James’ chosen reading material, he takes up the bumper copy of the _Necromonicon_ lying on the bedside table and starts right in. 

A little after _that_ , James’ hand comes to rest against his neck, fingers tucked beneath his collar, and a part of Will that had been spinning out slots right back into place. It feels like...a lot. 

It feels like coming home.

He reads until James has succumbed to a restful, healing sleep, the pinch between his eyebrows finally smoothing out.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Will discovers that Jem has un uncanny ability to turn his brain off.
> 
> By tying him up and teasing him with a feather. 
> 
> Wait. What?

A few days later, Will receives a summons to James’ room. Given everything that had occurred when he’d last invited himself in, he’s a little nervous about what he’ll find—but equally keen to _see_ James, who has mainly been holed up in there since Will found out that he was ill. He’s even been taking meals in his room, but insists that Will should socialise—so he’s been eating in the kitchen.

When he arrives, he finds the door ajar and is instantly pleased to see James standing under his own power and with some colour to his skin. The trembling that Will had noticed before has vanished, and while the empty tray set on the table suggests that he doesn’t yet trust his legs to carry him downstairs, it has been scraped clean, indicating the happy return of his full appetite. He’s also dressed in drawstring trousers and a loose t-shirt that suits him just as well as his suits do.

Relief settles in slowly, pulling Will’s shoulders down from around his shoulders. Mood lifting, he’s able to offer a smile in greeting.

“Ah, Will. Good.” James is smiling too, and for a dumb moment or two they just look at each other, taking in the details that they’ve missed over the last few days. Already Will is hungry to close some of the distance that James’ recovery has necessitated they keep. 

When James beckons him closer, Will attempts, and largely fails, to retain his cool as he walks forward to meet him. To his surprise, James bypasses his collar in favour of taking Will’s wrist, drawing him over to the bed. 

Will doesn’t complain. What is there to complain about?

“I wanted to thank you, Will,” James says seriously, gesturing for him to take a seat on the bed. In passing, Will notices that the chair that had been beside the bed last time has been returned to its usual position.

“You were kind to me, while I was ill,” James continues, “and you had no need to be.”

Will fidgets. “James— ” 

James puts a careful hand over Will’s mouth, silencing him immediately. “Will,” he says, very gently, “I wish you could see yourself as I do. As someone who is kind, and selfless, and capable of much, much more than you give yourself credit for.”

Will doesn’t know what to do with his hands.

“So _thank-you_ , Will. For extending some of that kindness towards me.” His eyes are very serious. “And for allowing me to see a little of your generous heart.”

The moment stretches out, thick and meaningful. Finally James drops his hand, and Will can breathe again.

“Now,” James says briskly, as if he can sense that Will has long since reached capacity on life-affirming confessions, “I wanted to try something.”

Will frowns, a little poleaxed by the sudden change in focus. Surely, he can’t be reading James’ expression right.

But then James is keeling in front of him, and he’s suddenly both tongue-tied and _very_ warm under the collar. The contrast between the James of a few days before and the one kneeling at his feet is stark, but the same calm consideration warms his gaze, and it goes some way towards settling Will’s frazzled nerves.

Eventually, James raises his eyebrows. With a jolt, Will realises that he’s been staring. Before he can think too much of it, he nods hurriedly.

Satisfied, James divests Will of his shoes and socks, then stands again. For a moment, he studies Will’s expression, then his own gentles all at once. Too late, Will ducks his head.

“You’re worried,” James deduces, irritatingly correct as always. Will would hate it if he didn’t think it was so...well. Anyway.

“Please don’t be,” James adds gently. It’s a suggestion, not an order. “Do you remember what we discussed the other day?”

Will knows instantly what he’s referring to. Unbelievably, the conversation about what James wanted to try _next_ in the bedroom had happened at breakfast a few days before James had taken ill, while Will was innocently tucking into an obscenely large pile of pancakes. To Will’s disbelief, the warmth that James’ _suggestions_ had elicited had seriously curtailed his appetite.

An uncertain fluttering starts up in Will’s stomach. “Worried? Why would I be worried? Nah. I’m _excited_. Ready to show you a good time.”

James looks mildly entertained, which is kind of _rude_. Will’s comments deserve way more than _mild_ amusement. He’s been reliably informed that he’s a _delight_.

“And do you have an answer for me?”

Will frowns. They’d gone on to discuss _lots_ of things, from the absolutely banal (why all of Will’s clothes have to match James’) to the philosophical (the meaning of life to a person sold into slavery). He thinks he remembers it all, but nothing particularly relevant to this moment pops into his head.

He gives in, shrugging.

James smiles—very gently. “The colours?”

_Ah. Right. Red to stop, yellow to put things on pause, and green to indicate that we’re good to go._ Will nods.

“Good. I’ll check in with you regularly, but use them whenever you need to. First, I’m going to take off your shirt and secure you to the headboard with these.” He pauses, pointing towards a collection of black leather straps with gleaming metal clips. Will swallows.

“Then I’m going to touch you with this.” 

Will snorts. “A feather? I’d wager not even _Jessamine_ would quail at that.”

James’ expression doesn’t shift a solitary inch. Clearly, he’s set on delivering his message, regardless of Will’s tendency to interrupt and inability to stop himself from deflecting. “Yes, it’s a feather. But I wouldn’t pass judgement on it just yet.”

Recognising the look in James’ eyes, Will waves a languid hand, feigning absolute calm even as his insides erupt again into a jittery mess at the thought of James’ beautiful musician’s hands trailing the feather across Will’s skin. 

_Wait. What kind of hands?_

Seemingly oblivious to his inner turmoil, James starts by removing Will’s shirt, lifting it so carefully over his shoulders and head that he barely needs to move a muscle to assist. Once the garment has been set aside, James’ hands alight on his shoulders before he trails his blunt fingernails down the length of Will’s chest.

Will doesn’t quite succeed in biting back a shiver.

James’ eyes snap up to his, intent on deciphering his reaction. He looks focused, but also Will shivers again— _hungry_.

“Colour, Will?”

Will swallows. His throat and his lips are inexplicably dry. The warmth he’d felt when James had first mentioned this is back, and it’s increasing. He clears his throat. “Yeah. Green.”

James smiles briefly. “Good. Then I’ll continue.” 

Taking up the straps, James clips one to the D-ring on Will’s collar and the other end to the headboard. He asks Will to bring his wrists together behind his back, then buckles a padded cuff to each, clipping them together and then to the headboard by virtue of another two leather straps.

They’re comfortable but secure; when Will pulls on them a little, testing his range of motion, they don’t shift or strain. He can’t pull loose, but he could reach the clips, if he was really motivated to free himself, and the fact that it’s possible ensures he can put the idea out of his mind entirely. Swallowing thickly, he draws his legs up onto the bed and under him, making himself comfortable.

James checks the buckles and the cuffs, ensuring that they’re holding Will firmly but aren’t pinching or gripping anywhere. He also demonstrates how the cuffs and straps can be removed in seconds if either of them want or need to end the scene prematurely.

Then he sits back on his heels. “Colour, Will?”

The familiar motions have put Will at his ease, and he’s already drifting into a gentler headspace where everything is muted and soft at the edges. James has never said—and Will has never asked—whether it happens more quickly for him than it typically does for other people. He’s not sure that he wants to know.

Will’s smile spreads lazily across his face. “Green. So, so green. The best kind of green you ever have seen.”

James snorts. It’s possibly the best thing Will has ever heard. 

Then he takes up the feather.

James draws it over the gentle swell of Will’s biceps, and down one arm and then the other, over his forearms and towards the delicate skin at his wrists. Briefly, he lifts it away, leaving tingling skin in its unassuming wake. Will bites his lip as James drags it across his chest, passing over one nipple and then the other; as they tighten up in response, a flush crawls up his neck and into his cheeks.

At that point, Will has to shift his weight. James lifts the feather away, waiting politely for him to still his movements.

Down his front, again, the very tip of the feather sneaking between his skin and the waistband of his slacks. Will makes an unplanned, incoherent noise.

James pauses. “Colour?”

Will groans. “C’mon. _Green_.”

James looks up, smiles at whatever he finds in Will’s expression, and chooses another patch of skin to test and tease.

It’s strange. James makes no effort to conceal or obfuscate his movements, but Will can’t predict how his own body is going to react. Sometimes he breaks out in goosebumps, sometimes he shivers, and sometimes he can’t help but shift and bite his lip, pulse hammering.

Eventually, he reaches breaking point. Every patch of skin that James has touched tingles, over-sensitive, and and with each fresh contact, Will squirms helplessly, small sounds and ill-considered pleas sneaking out from between clenched teeth. He wants James to stop. He doesn’t want James to stop.

As if sensing the fact he’s hovering on a precipice, James shifts behind him. Will has enough warning to anticipate it, but when James draws the feather down the full length of his spine, Will’s hips judder forwards and he lets out a sound that’s far too close to a moan for comfort, cheeks turning a ruddy crimson.

There’s nowhere to go; the cuffs hold him secure, and James just goes straight back in with the feather, trailing it around from Will’s back to his front, over his ribs.

The dam breaks.

“James, please,” Will gasps. “Please, please touch me. James—”

The only response he receives is a considering sort of hum.

“Please,” Will blurts again, desperate now, “please, James, you have to touch me, I can’t—”

“I am touching you, Will.” His tone is gentle but implacable; unmoved.

When the feather draws in again, Will _sobs_. Out of a desperate need to do something, anything, he pulls fruitlessly at the cuffs.

James immediately drops the feather onto the bed and presses warm, gentle hands against Will’s ribs, spreading his fingers wide, and drops a tiny, featherlight kiss against the base of Will’s neck, just beneath the collar.

Ultimately, it’s the combination of both James’ hands and the knowledge that he’s held safe and securely that tips him over the metaphorical edge. In one moment he’s panting and squirming, overloading on sensation, and in the next he just _surrenders_ to it, that desperate urgency fading away. There’s no point fighting, because James has him, and there’s no point worrying for exactly the same reason. With a contented hum, he sinks down into his bonds, the bed, and James. He feels James’ arms come up around him, bracketing him in warmly, and as his head lolls back against his shoulder, his eyes close.

When he comes back to himself, he’s lying flat on the bed, head on one of the pillows. The restraints are long gone, the sheet beneath him is clean and smells fresh, and there’s a glass of juice and some chocolate on the nightstand. He’s also wearing a soft cotton t-shirt that must be James’. His head feels a little like his brain has been scooped out and replaced with soggy cotton wool, and his limbs feel like a collection of limp noodles. Marshalling the vestiges of his energy, he turns his head to the side.

James is sitting on the bed next to him, close enough to touch. Unthinking, Will does just that, reaching out with clumsy, uncoordinated fingers.

Immediately, James looks away from his laptop and takes his hand, the little line between his brows smoothing out as he makes eye contact with Will, smiling gently. “There you are. How are you feeling?”

Will doesn’t have words to articulate _any_ of it. Not the weird, shiny feeling in his chest, or how he wants to shiver whenever James’ eyes land on him. He certainly can’t explain the feeling of absolute trust that fell on him like a ton of bricks when James tied him up and teased him with a _feather_. It’s way too much, and he’s terrified that if he starts, he’ll never stop.

Somehow, James seems to know exactly what Will can’t say, for his expression softens immediately. “That’s okay,” he soothes, voice gentle but far from condescending. “We don’t need to get into it right now. Can you sit up for me?”

_That_ , Will can do. James has to help him, but he makes it up into a sitting position, propped up against James’ ridiculously soft pillows. Once situated, he manages to sip from his juice without dropping it or spilling it over himself. It feels like an accomplishment.

For a while, he just enjoys the silence—in the room and in his head—without the need to fill it. Occasionally, he sips from his glass or nibbles on the bit of chocolate.

Then James closes his laptop and makes to get off the bed.

Realistically, he’s probably just putting his laptop away. But every nerve in Will’s body seizes up at once, and, retaining just enough presence of mind to shove his glass and the chocolate back on the table, he leans forwards as a precursor to going after him, loses his fragile balance and almost topples over entirely.

James catches him. Of course he does. “Will,” he murmurs, voice unfairly gentle, “I’m just putting my—”

“Kiss me,” Will croaks.

James stares at him, mouth slightly open.

_Fuck._ His stomach drops into his feet. “Please?”

James kisses him.

It starts out slow and chaste—gentle, even. Then Will makes a helpless, wanting noise and presses even closer, and James’ hands lift, one to tangle in Will’s already hopelessly tangled hair, and the other to settle on his shoulder, little finger just brushing the edges of Will’s collar.

They don’t separate until the need for air becomes impossible to ignore.

**Author's Note:**

> I'm back! Amazing, right?
> 
> As before, I can't promise where the next parts of this series will take us. But I can promise to keep coming back and adding to it, as and when inspiration strikes.
> 
> Most importantly: thank-you for sticking with me. It's been a tough year, and if my writing can provide you with any kind of comfort or temporary distraction, then that's something to be proud of.
> 
> Look after yourself.


End file.
